Category Archives: poetry

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Painting Angels

You were an artist
You are an artist
You said that you’d have to live to 120 to finish all your projects
And died at 61
I keep wondering
what the art supplies are like
and if you work on sunsets
or mountains
or lakes

Trey, 9
made a clay fish last summer that I admire.
He said grumpily “It’s too bad Grandma Helen died before I could do clay with her.”
He tells me he’s ready to make raku pots for fire in your ashes as you wished
I ask what he’d make
He considers and says, “What was Grandma Helen’s favorite food?”
I can’t think and say that she liked lots of foods
At the same time wondering squeamishly if maybe
he should make a vase and then being surprised
that I am squeamish and thinking of blood and wine,
too, I wonder if my dad would know. “Maybe guacamole.”
I need to find a potter to apprentice him to.

Camille, 4.
asks how old Grandma Helen was when she died.
I explain that she died at 61 but her mother died at 92.
Camille asks how old I am.
40.
When are you going to die?
I say I don’t know, none of us do, but I hope it’s more towards 90.

Camille studies me and is satisfied for now.
She goes off.
I think of you.

I perpetuate
the Christmas cards you did with us
upon my children
They each draw a card.
We photocopy them and hand paint with watercolors.
Camille wants to draw an angel
and says she can’t.
I draw a simple angel
and have her trace it.
She has your fierce concentration
bent over tracing through the thick paper
She wants it right.
The angel is transformed.

My kids resist the painting after a few cards as I did too.
Each time I paint the angel
to send to someone I love
I think of Camille
and you
and genes
and Heaven
I see you everywhere

published in Mama Stew: An Anthology: Reflections and Observations on Mothering, edited by Elisabeth Rotchford Haight and Sylvia Platt c. 2002

written January 19, 2002

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Hard 

It's hard to let go of you
and stay present

I don't know why
The Beloved set me this task
I argue and struggle
a fly in Her web
But I hold still when She bites me
Paralyzed by love

You connect me to Beloved
that's what I want
Like a spring
Like a stream
Like a geyser
Like a tsunami
Like an ocean
I am lost in the depths

It's ok really
I am used to pain
I am used to the air hurting like knives
When I draw breath

Oh Beloved
The sky is crying hard with hail
while I write this

It's hard to let go of you
and stay present

Luckily I have so much to cry about
That you can't tell which tears
are about you
by

without reason

without reason

my cat worries
as I pack the bug out bags
to hide in the woods
if food stops arriving on trucks

she hates it when I pack
and the other pound kitten of nine years ago
was killed by a car two months ago
so she is lonely

I stop packing
I hold my cat
I say, “We will not go without you.”
I hold her
She relaxes
Believes me

I get the travel cage from the garage
wash it and get my pink silk scarf
it’s been in a bag and she has been hiding there
just her face in shadow when I walk by

I put the scarf in the travel cage
leave the door open
and feed her there intermittently
I will take her in the travel cage in the car
so that she is prepared

I’ll take the fish too
somehow

I plan to put plants outside
some may survive

some say animals and plants
have unstinting happiness
but not my cat

she worries that I will leave without her

and is reassured
when I say I won’t

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Evolution

I like this poem: http://seshatwuji.wordpress.com/2014/10/07/birth-of-the-global-brain/

I am posting a poem that I first posted on everything2 on June 6, 2014.

Evolution

The boys keep building machines
They get more and more complicated

The girls use the machines, some

The boys plug in
wire up
log on

The girls tweet
Sometimes they twerk

Some boys twerk too
And some girls log on

The boys write more languages
more programs
they translate from one to another
it all moves faster
They play games where they kill bosses
Online in groups
By the tens of thousands

It all looks a little insane

Don’t worry
Don’t fear

The boys keep building

In hopes that they will come

Some girls build
They hope they will come too

The girls are the Borg Queen
Some boys are too

“We will assimilate you,”
they say

The boys and girls say,

Yes

Please

Yes

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In preparation

I wrote this on 9/26/14 in the midst of much frustration and my lungs still hurting three and a half months after I got sick. I am off from taking care of patients, but still have to try to get my business covered and my patients taken care of. I think there is a component of my vocal cords not working because I am told that I am wrong and to shut up so often.

Favorite example is a Seattle Infectious Disease doctor that I called to ask for help with an infection in our town. He said, “You are a rural Family Practice Doctor. Why would I listen to you?”

I said, “I’m a girl too.” and hung up in frustration. That attitude will not win him any referrals from me. On my permanent stupid moron list, along with an amazing number of specialists. They are either respectful or they aren’t.

Currently I am on no alcohol at all, because I have to do a special diet before a 24 hour urine test. Means no caffeine either, ouch, headache.

In preparation

Today I will start drinking
now
even though it’s only 9:40
in the am

I will stretch two beers
through the long hours
as the alcohol
blocks the receptors
and numbs my aching heart
and lungs

and I will stay home alone
today
so that I won’t talk

time
to rest my voice

in preparation
for the next round
of talk

where I am told
in no uncertain terms
to sit down
and to shut up

by

sometimes the hummingbird

sometimes the hummingbird

Boa cat
meows
the meow that means she’s caught something
and wants to show me

and I go to look
it is a hummingbird
probably immature
dead

I pat her and praise her
Good Boa
I see what you caught

She taps the hummingbird
around the room a few times
but it is dead

so she eats it

and I’m crying

sometimes the hummingbird
gets eaten

and that is ok